Mind the Gap
by shi-wiprincess
Summary: Katniss accepts the challenges of living on a London council estate, it's what she knows. After leaving foster care, she focuses on raising her young son, studying at university and trying to keep herself safe. However her daily commute on the tube enables her to observe different lives anonymously from afar, but what happens when she discovers someone is watching her right back?
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **

**This is my first time writing so all your reviews and comments will be especially appreciated. The issues covered in this story are incredibly close to my heart and are relevant the world over, although I have chosen to set my story in London as this is what I know. **

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games characters belong to Suzanne Collins, I am just privileged to be able to use them in my story. **

**An incredibly big thank you to my beta ct522, without her encouragement I probably never would have posted! Also thanks to Abagail Snow and alatariel-gildaen for their comments and prereading the story. **

**I hope you enjoy my writing! **

**Prologue**

**London 1991**

Portia Clements sits in anticipation in the waiting room to the special care baby room in St Mary's Hospital, Paddington. She is awaiting permission to take a peek at her very first client. It is also her first day as a duty worker in the St Mary's Hospital Social Work Team, specialising in paediatrics. She hopes she isn't going to make a mess of it.

She scans the limited notes about the patient again as they rest on her lap. The information about the very little young man she is about to see is understandably brief and to the point.

_Baby aged 2 months was admitted last night with a minor head injury and a fracture in his arm likely to have been caused by being hit against a wall. Mother claims to have shaken him when he would not stop crying. However there is no evidence of retinal haemorrhaging or swelling of the brain. Baby has been vomiting and did lose consciousness. He was brought in to A&E by mother who claimed she could not cope with him. Normal symptoms of colic were described. When non accidental injury was discovered, mother became very violent and had to be escorted away by security pending arrival of police. Emergency Police Protection Order is being granted and NO CONTACT is to be allowed under any circumstances. A multi-agency check on mother reveals there have been adoption orders made on 2 previous babies. Baby is believed to be of Lithuanian origin and was living in a refuge in Ladbroke Grove. Immigration status is unclear. There was no mention of other family in the UK. He appears to have stabilised although his prognosis is unknown. His name is Peeta. _

"Ms Clements?"

Portia is startled by the appearance of a nurse's head around the door closest to her chair. She looks very young and Portia immediately feels relaxed in her presence. It is nice to see a friendly face before the anticipation of her work becomes overwhelming.

"Hello, my name is Rue and I'm monitoring Peeta this afternoon. Are you ready to come and see him?" She smiles sweetly and props open the door.

"Yes of course, how is he doing?" Portia asks trying to sound more confident and professional than she feels.

Rue's face lights up in a huge beam and it becomes instantly obvious to Portia that she loves her job and becomes easily attached to the babies she cares for.

"Oh I can already see he's a fighter" she gushes "He's a tiny miracle really; he seems to be functioning near normal and bouncing back very quickly. I think he will be out of here very soon. He is surprisingly contented as well, taking into account the fact that he must still be in some pain from the bruising on his head and his broken arm, especially as he is such a young baby. He is my newest brave little soldier."

She smiles again encouragingly and gestures for Portia to stand by the clear sided crib in the centre of the room.

"He has been sleeping for four hours, which is exactly what he needs at the moment, but he may wake up soon."

Portia takes her first look at the baby and despite her mental preparations; she knows that nothing would take away how upsetting it is to see such a small baby with such a large bruise on the side of his face. She's seen premature babies before, but something about the medicalization of his tiny body seems worse. She hastily tries to push back the growing lump in her throat and squeeze away the tear threatening to fall from her eye.

Then she remembers what Rue had said about him and she looks again to see the baby underneath

He is adorable.

There is a smattering of blonde hair on his tiny head and his non broken arm has been laid out above his head, making him look like he shouldn't have a care in the world. His other arm is tightly supported in a cast. His skin is very pale almost translucent, giving him an angelic appearance. This makes her remember what it said in his notes and she wonders what he will present Rue with this evening. At the moment it looks like his mother made it all up, perhaps she had. He is naked except for a nappy and a loose baby blanket covering his legs, his little tummy rises and falls rapidly, as if to say defiantly 'I am alive and I am most definitely here to stay.'

Portia looks up and sees that Rue has been observing them quietly this whole time. She inwardly chastises herself by remembering that she isn't always going to be able to fall into a reverie, especially as most of her clients are likely to be much more challenging than little Peeta. She is going to need to be very observant and one step ahead of everyone else in her new job.

Rue however, seems unsurprised by her reaction and she merely whispers

"It's your first day isn't it? Don't worry you'll get used to it."

She considers something for a moment and then adds.

"It's not really my place to say and I'm sure you know what you're doing and all that, but I think this one is going to be relinquished. I couldn't help seeing the disturbance when I had to help fetch him from A&E yesterday. I've seen quite a lot here already, but I've never seen a mum react like that. She kept screaming that she was innocent and he was like the devil's child. She couldn't wait to get him out of her sight. She attacked the doctors when they suggested he was a normal baby and she might have made him more distressed."

Portia frowns

"Well from a social work point of view, it's a little early to say if he will be relinquished or not. People say all kinds of things under stress. I'm going to attempt to speak to mum this afternoon; I believe she might have been sectioned and still be in the hospital. My priority is to get as many details as possible so I can start liaising with Kensington and Chelsea Fostering Team. Peeta needs to have an identified foster placement as soon as possible so that a foster carer can start coming to visit him and getting to know him."

"Yes of course" acknowledges Rue. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted for a bit while I go and check on the other babies."

She has gone.

The room is quiet except for Peeta's slightly snuffled breathing and a rhythmic beeping coming from a machine nearby. Portia stands in silence for a moment and is just considering taking her leave when she hears a random cough followed by a small sneeze. She realises that a pair of fascinated blue eyes are trying to make contact with her own, searching for some sort of reaction. Inexplicable panic sets in for a moment, before she again remembers that this is not really a new situation.

He is still just a baby.

She rummages in her bag for the first suitable object she can find. Her hand alights on a new office security swipe card attached to a cord that can hang around her neck. It swings out above Peeta's face, his eyes follow it and he wiggles his mobile arm and legs, a little fist waving almost as if he is trying to catch it.

Portia can't help herself and she smiles in a way that Peeta seems to evoke in those around him.

"Well aren't you clever?" She coos and he smiles back delighted.

They are still delighted with each other when Rue comes back into the room with a tiny disposable formula bottle and packet of sterilized teats.

After leaving the room, the new social worker stops to reflect a little on what she has just seen. She resolves to do her utmost to help make sure Peeta's needs are met in the short time she will know him. She feels excited and grateful for the opportunity of supporting such inspiring and deserving children for many years to come.

**London 2002**

Portia Clements rakes her fingers through her rapidly greying hair and allows her eyes to once again drift to the all-powerful clock on the wall. Its five minutes to five on a Friday afternoon. That all important five minutes which is so close to the end of her shift, but in which anything can and usually does happen.

Of course the phone rings.

"Sorry it's a late one" apologises the rather breathless tone of Octavia, one of the nurses from Tiggywinkle ward.

"We've had two sisters brought in. Katniss Everdeen, an eleven year old came with a teacher from St Charles School. Three year old Primrose Everdeen was brought in by ambulance straight from home. It looks like severe neglect at the least. Both of them are extremely underweight and very unkempt in appearance. Katniss also has cuts all down the underside of her arms, some of which are infected. They are most likely self-inflicted. Primrose seems very poorly. She doesn't seem to have shown any emotional reaction to being here and she fell asleep as soon as she was settled in her bed.

I think the teacher and the police officer that attended their home address are still waiting to speak to you.

Can you go down?

Oh and by the way, be careful when you go and see the older one. She's quiet and on her own now, but she screamed blue murder and scratched like a wild cat when I suggested Primrose might be able to sleep better in a private room rather than in the main bay next to her."

Portia doesn't have the energy to correct Octavia's rather unprofessional assessment of Katniss behaviour, so she goes downstairs to investigate.

Two hours later, after an exhausting meeting which surprisingly includes both the mother and step father, Portia finally gets to see Katniss and Prim. She makes her way through Beatrix Potter illustrations until she reaches the last bay. It's busy, but the rather unique traits of the two girls she is now interested in make them easy to identify. Prim doesn't look like she will wake up for a long time, greasy blonde hair messily gathered into two lopsided plaits resting on her pillow. She turns her attention to Katniss, who appears to be facing down, equally oblivious, her black hair floating unevenly loose across the sheets, her hands above her head clutching the metal bedstead behind her. Portia however has seen this before, the silent language that says 'Leave me alone, I'm not yet ready.' She doesn't push it and goes to the nurse's desk to complete her final recordings.

Sure enough, two minutes later a school uniformed sylph raises up from the same bed, creeps across the floor and crouches in front of a corner bookshelf. She takes ownership of 'The Animals of Farthing Wood' and trips back to her bed.

It's nearly Christmas so it's already dark by the time Portia is leaving her office, the glare of city lights brightening her window. She looks down at the station far below, a giant canopy that alternately swallows and spits out unsuspecting travellers either into the crush of Praed Street or a rush hour intercity train.

Unknowingly spoilt children tug at their parent's sleeve for an extortionately priced miniature Paddington Bear. Upstairs, commuters hurry to jump on an awaiting tube carriage, because a two minute wait might mean missing another opportunity to increase the privileges they already take for granted. She wonders if they'll ever see what she sees. A hidden world that daily pushes some of its inhabitants through her office door and then drags them back out again, unfixed, forever bruised and chained by the deep seated urban decay that surrounds them.

Tourists gesture blindly at departure boards, trying to catch the darting electric words before giving up and accepting failure, a failure to understand what's really going on around them. The dirty secrets choked by the proverbial smog which they'll look for but never find.

She thinks some days that she can't take it anymore. This idea she has gradually found that sometimes she is powerless and at worst she might even be a puppet that perpetuates the very problems she once dreamt of solving.

Finally Portia moves away from the window and begins to lock away her files. A quick glance back to the ward beyond tells her that for the moment at least all is quiet and getting ready for the evening. Prim is still asleep and Katniss face is now out of sight behind her book.

Just before she turns out the light, she checks the flight tickets stashed in her bag.

Home

Tomorrow she flies to St Lucia, to the grandma who raised her. For six weeks she can pretend that St Mary's Hospital does not exist. When she returns Katniss and Prim will be long gone, just like so many more before them and the thousands more who are yet to come.


	2. Chapter 1 Not at Home

**Author Note: **

**Thank you so much for coming back to read Chapter 1! Please review and comment so I can improve my writing, I will be so happy if you do. **

**Lots of appreciation for my beta ct522 for helping me with this chapter and thanks to Abagail Snow and alatariel-gildaen who commented on this one too. **

**There is some London slang used in this chapter. Please go to the bottom of the chapter if you would like a translation. **

**Chapter 1 Not at Home**

"_My name is Katniss Everdeen._

_I am 19 years old. _

_I come from West London. _

_I had to leave home because my mum is mentally ill and she neglected me. _

_I don't get along with my step dad._

_I was fostered as a teenager and now I'm a proud mum and a university student. _

_The first fostered young person from my borough able to go."_

At least that's the official script given me by Shae, my mentor for when I stand up at community and young people's events, but sometimes things aren't always that easy to understand and explain.

So this is the real story that I want to tell and it might just be the real story of somebody else too.

**Age 11.**

It's raining again and I'm standing in puddles outside the entrance for Flat 15, St Quintin Tower, Latimer Road London W10. At least that's where the social worker who escorts me says I am, but I recognise it as the road with the spicy food smells, an unkind street that always made my tummy rumble as I searched for forgotten change in telephone boxes. I always needed just enough for a small bag of lukewarm chips. I repeat the address like a silent mantra to its new significance; I won't ever allow myself to be lost.

"You're lucky to be coming here" the social worker breaks my thoughts, obviously hoping I'm listening. I know my face must look blank.

"They're a lovely family, but they already have three girls living with them and they're not really supposed to have four. However they know how much you want to be near your home and your sister, so they're very happy to have you."

The bit about wanting to be near my home isn't strictly true, but I ignore this mistake to get to the more important question.

"Where is Prim?" I interrupt guilt and worry bubbling up inside me again. These are the only emotions I've been feeling since we got off the train, except well if I'm honest, a little bit of pushed down curiosity about this new life I seem to have been picked out for.

"She's still in hospital dear, but when she's feeling better. I'm sure she'll come to live somewhere very near here."

I nod, it's my only option, and I've accepted that for the moment. I'm freed from the prison of home, but restrained by some new system I don't quite yet have the key to.

As I'm still feeling angry that she might have something to do with taking Prim away I decide to watch her squirm, besides she's also a social worker, a kind I've been taught not to like since I first learnt to speak.

"Why can't I go home instead of here? Why did my mum and my step dad sign those papers so I don't have to go back?"

Of course I do know why really. I've been angrily comparing myself to other children since I turned eleven and I even have my mother's words to prove it.

"You don't really want to be like all those other children do you Katniss? If you do, you can't stay here, but I know you're not like them, not at all."

The social worker knows I know this. She's seen the bandages on my arms to confirm it, but she tries to answer anyway.

"Umm… I think… well umm… you see." She trails off muttering something about some people not understanding the meaning of unconditional love. I simply scowl as the two words go over my head, but I secretly cling to this new explanation and resolve to look it up in a book when I can find one again.

The social worker presses the buzzer, a happy jingle that stands out on a grey day. A pretty lady comes down to open the door, at least I think she must be pretty as she wears lots of makeup, gold jewellery and she smells like a flower. She also wears almost posh people clothes. The kind I've seen in catalogues lying abandoned on doorsteps.

She starts talking to me as we enter the flat and it's a welcoming voice, which says her name is Effie. I zone out to check the more important safety of my surroundings. I look around and decide dust would most definitely be unwelcome here. The walls are a gallery of photos, posing little children, ladies in long evening dresses with styled hair and an imposing overweight man with a scruffy beard wearing a suit. There are also pictures of older girls with darker skin that might be a bit more like me. They don't look quite so comfy with the camera.

We leave this room and upstairs there a lot of closed doors, one of them must belong to me. One does, but it's not just for me. There are two beds almost touching each other. One is decorated with baby clothes, the pile almost high enough to cover a scan photo, which has central place above the pillow.

"Clove is 16 and pregnant; she'll be here for a few more months" I hear Effie say, her voice now sounding slightly tired. Glimmer and Cashmere sleep next door. Glimmer is pregnant too."

The social worker leaves and after Effie tries again to reassure me; I curl up in the corner of my new bed and rest my chin on my knees. Hours turn to days, days to weeks. Clove tosses and turns in her sleep and moans in the night. She whispers in the dark that she dreams of when her mum drunkenly tried to set her on fire in her bed, proudly pulling on my fingers to feel the burn scar on her face. She talks in her sleep about her boyfriend threatening to pick her baby up by the scruff of its neck and drop it on the pavement because she refused to have an abortion. She's not so proud of that dream. Glimmer laughs loudly as she tells the others how I only bath once a week, the water comes out black and my nails are always dirty. Cashmere pulls on the backs of my legs to see if I am strong enough to stay upright, and pushes to see whether I fall down the stairs.

I answer my first question; it's not that safe here after all….

**London 2010 **

It's November, when I first see him. The air is fresh and alive with what I stupidly in childhood called 'the magical season.' The time of year starting with the mystery of Halloween, continuing with the smoke of Bonfire Night, fireworks of Diwali, tastes of Eid and then the excitement and hope of Christmas and New Year. The only time I could actually pretend a fantasy world was all around me, rather than just in my head.

My heavily scuffed trainers crunch on the last of the crispy curled leaves still lingering in on the footpath. I know it's a 'him' because of the spike of apprehension that stabs through me and screams potential threat. It's silly really, I feel nothing when I see the hoodies and shotters, little wannabe gangsters and spaced out junkies that are ever present at the bottom of my block, but something about the way he is alone says 'different' and different is something only I am allowed to be.

If I hadn't been looking for treasures for Lucas I would never have noticed him. My eyes are darting left and right through the barbed wire seeking out toadstools, beetles and creeping birds, even snake like tree roots with forked tongues. Anything I can share with my nature hungry little boy after our long day apart, but I am looking and he is there. A large figure hunched where there shouldn't be one, partially shaded from view by the tangled blackberry bushes and overhanging trees. A sideways glance of my eye catches a baseball cap covering messy blonde curls and a dirty orange hooded top, before the sudden rattle of a train emerging from the tunnel with a shower of electrical sparks startles me into movement and the stranger turns his head. I see big blue eyes go impossibly wide. So I run, chasing the train along the next section of 'cut and cover.' It's almost as if I'm trying to hide from the stranger in the undergrowth, my braid streaming behind me as I tell myself I'll stop when I reach the bridge.

My braid, a sleek silky plait that extends from high on my olive oiled head down to my waist. It's an unusual hair style on a girl like me, except to the few I have offered an explanation. As a child my hair was never taken care of, my mum in her illness forbade me to learn to brush it myself. She wanted me to remain forever her dependent little girl who would always cling to her side. My step dad never disagreed with her; I think he liked to watch me suffer. On bad days I look in the mirror and I can still hear his voice. "Your hair is the best thing about you" he said. Even then I knew it was a lie, the laughter and fascinated stares from rarely seen other school children more believable than the words of the only man I had known as a father. My matted locks were not something to be proud of, they were a mistake that I still feel the pain from. When I was ten I dared to whisper I didn't like my hair and after I refused his offer of the kitchen scissors, he was so angry he ripped my hair out clump by clump until my roots would never go back in place again. Now I'm proud of my hair, never let down, always plaited in place. No more foster sisters counting the number of times I run my detangling fingers through it. No knots.

Now I can pretend I am free as I cool my pace, familiarity seeping back into my veins so I can try to forget my weird encounter and dismiss my out of character response. I cross the bridge onto my favourite side of the path. A spiral black metal staircase leads down to two adjacent paths, the Grand Union Canal towpath and the meander into the real retreat, past a sign that proclaims "Welcome to Meanwhile Gardens" in ten languages.

I love this place.

On quiet daytimes like these I feel like it's mine. My own space, here all the different parts of me can come together without overcrowding each other. Clove once identified why I wasn't like the others that already lived in my foster placement.

"You're afraid of the outside Katniss, indoors is all you know. We're afraid of the indoors, we're used to the streets and until you know the outside too you won't belong."

The outside.

I know it well enough now, both hers and mine.

I walk past a canal barge named 'Freedom' which bobs up and down with promises of adventure piled high on its roof. A grey swarm of pigeons run across my path like rats after some casually tossed pitta bread, only to be scattered by a speeding man on a bike. An olive skinned teenage boy named Thom hangs his mum's washing over the edge of a balcony, acknowledging me with a sullen nod of the head. It's funny how all the new build flats on the other side of the bank have been made to look like luxury apartments, but the trikes clinging to balcony railings, towels draped out of windows and the sound of mum's screaming at their kids lets me know we haven't been gentrified like the rest of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea wants us to be, well not quite yet.

I leave the towpath and pass the skate park. More often than not it's crowded with boys from my estate mixed with rich children who like to come here from surrounding areas, easily distinguished by their parent purchased helmets and knee pads. Today it's deserted. The gardens themselves are a tiny sliver of green trees with a pond threaded through, sandwiched between the canal and the estate tower blocks behind. I'm usually alone here; only vague shouts, spluttering moped engines and car horns remind me that the rest of London is still there. The whole place is always green, even the pond which is bright and stagnant in the summer and a murky dark green now. Another young mum is holding her toddler by the hood as he leans over the wooden boards to see into the water, her other hand pulling firmly on the lead of a Staffordshire terrier eager to be off smelling the bases of the trees. I realise this could be a photo of me. I love to bring Lucas to the pond dipping classes and mini beast hunt run by the 'Community Hub' at the bottom of my block. That is when my studies don't get in the way.

The garden around the pond is made up of Moroccan urns and mosaics and logs for a playground. The whole thing is surrounded by corrugated iron fences, as if to say to us from the estates "this isn't your back garden." It's pointless really, graffiti coats everything. The spider's leg writing is probably just unwelcome scribbles of nonsense to a casual passer-by, but to me each tag conjures up names and faces, reminders of who actually lives here and to whom this place really belongs. If you look up, the tower blocks overshadow it all. I swear that mine in particular must be the highest in London. If you look at the top too long, you start to feel dizzy and it's easy to imagine all the buildings are falling over, claustrophobic as they obliterate the green.

I climb over the grassy mounds to the left and walk through the gated tall black railings topped with metal spikes. There's a sharp colour change here from green to grey, homes and littered pavements made entirely of granite and concrete, thin lift tunnels and elevated narrow walkways. Two hundred flat white windows on one side and two hundred cluttered balconies on the other. The only attempt at decoration is a subway style pattern of blue and white tiles, like something you'll see in a hospital or police station. My home is just another public building really. The walkways criss-cross over derelict basketball courts and abandoned garages, linking the blocks together. Urban tightropes where you can't see who is coming and what might be round the corner, a lot like life here in general. Dumped furniture can be found in dark corners, not because we don't care, we simply have no way of disposing of it. There are a lot of places to hide and sometimes you just might want to. A row of shops also includes a betting agency, pub, doctor's surgery, a drug and alcohol outreach programme and a library, in that order of importance. You don't have to leave this place if you can't face it. At the back of the shops is also a small nursery, where I am headed. That is if I can manage to sneak past Gale's living room window without being noticed.

Gale is my oldest friend, at least that's what I tell myself. Sometimes I think that he still thinks otherwise, except when someone gets some of the girls from South Kilburn to come here, or better still some European, Japanese or Brazilian females to 'show around the ends.' Then I'm relegated to being 'my bredrin Katniss' or if he's feeling extra protective then his 'liccle cousin.'

I've known Gale since I was twelve years old and he was fifteen. Effie was linked up with his foster carer Hazel for support back in the day and now the latter is one of those 'serial foster carers' with the award certificate for one hundred young people. Yohana, my outspoken foster sister prefers the title 'Does it for the money' and apparently that's not always viewed as a bad thing these days. But who am I to say?

Hazel ran a launderette on the Brunel estate and as far as I know those machines still whir around way past closing time, hypnotising exhausted washers into sleep after a busy shift somewhere that doesn't pay enough for them to buy a washing machine of their own. I should know, I was there often enough when I first moved to independence, balancing my washing basket precariously on top of Lucas buggy. The detergent and sleep suit television programme keeping him entertained just long enough for me to practice university application forms on my lap. She never had much time for Gale and his two younger brothers Vick and Rory, preferring to spend her non-working time on her own young daughter Posy instead. Gale says she used to spend what was supposed to be their allowance on as many classes for her as she could. I don't know if that's true, but I do know she worried that too much time around the foster kids would somehow corrupt her little girl, knowing Gale, she was probably right.

However lazy a foster carer Hazel was, it was much better than being passed around the numerous families that couldn't cope with his need to be with his brothers or at home with his own mum's drunken rages. I don't know that much about what happened to him before he came into care. Information from a few joking snippets or angry rants about how life is unfair is all I have. I do know that Gale copped it most to protect his brothers. His mother had numerous chances to sort herself out before social services finally pulled the plug when she broke both his legs by slamming his bedroom door on them repeatedly after he ran away, refusing to clean up her vomit.

We started spending time together at one of Effie's foster care association fun days, slumped together in the corner of a bouncy castle, whilst the little ones were entertained by a clown telling a story about a 'naughty social worker.' An exchange of texts and we never looked back, the months following were a liberating blur of skates at the Queensway Ice Bowl, nights watching the sun go down at the memorial park and imagining what we'd do when we left care. This progressed rapidly onto pouring buckets of water down into his racist neighbours window, playing 'knockdown ginger,' lighting fireworks out of double decker windows and 'bunnin' on the top floors of multi storey car parks, our legs dangling over the edge whilst we contemplated doing a Spiderman jump onto the traffic jam below.

We got older, relationships changed. Evenings at under 18's club trying to sneak alcohol past the bouncers ended with fumbled sex on park benches, school playground Wendy houses left just in time to commandeer black cabs. We always bolted just the right distance from home, fare unpaid. Soon we were not alone. The temptation to bunk off college for him and school for me too great to resist when there were petty rivalries to attend to, jumping tube ticket barriers to get to MC and DJ battles in some tower block goodness knows where. My voice as the only girl needed to end the contest.

I always listened to Gale because he's older than me and that's important here. There are always parts of the system he negotiated first. However I started charting waters that he hasn't swum and he has taken a path that my head won't ever fully have a compass for.

Then there was Lucas.

I should have seen it coming, the cracks creeping up the walls of his first new flat. He was both emancipated and abandoned at the same time, just when I found out that the life inside me was not just my own. The burnt cheese on toast he tried to make for the first time leading to a smashed tumbler above me on the wall, pieces of glass raining down like the tears of more lost trust. The end came during a row about how well I had still managed to do in my GCSE's. I was thinking that maybe one day I could go to university, the unimpressed reaction I received prompted the thoughtless reply of "Sometimes I just hate you so much." Then he threw me off the bed and across the room. The purple bruises from my impact with the floor a reminder of why with Lucas; I should always try to be alone.

I don't always manage it.

I walk into the flat and Gale places a wad of twenty pound notes into my hand whilst I check the fridge to see if there is any food inside. The smell of 'grade' and cigarettes still seems so strong even though it's been years since smoking was banned outside. I go into the living room and they are all slouched down on the uncoordinated mixture of sofas, armchairs and beanbags, anywhere you can sit but never on the floor, their legs wide apart and arms stretched over the backs as if they'll never feel big enough. Gale goes to sit down with his brothers. They could almost be triplets now, their hair tight in corn rows as they cover a sofa bed with sorted bags. Darius, who says he's got connections with the mafia in Green Lanes, is taking phone batteries out in the corner. He says he can get you anything, but he only has a chip toothed grin for me. The bean bag where Thom and Tyrell normally lounge is empty; the latter finally back in Feltham YOI because at least he gets three meals a day there. Marvel and Thresh are on the sofa nearest the TV, their eyes glued to the usual conspiracy theory documentary, black and white subliminals flashing on the screen. Charlie, one of the youngers, is practically lying on the other bean bag, his ginger hair covered by a hood even though we are indoors. He raises his left ankle to me so I can see his new electronic tag. Mo and Khalid are messing about with the DJ decks, they beckon me to come over and I guess my lyrical opinion on some bars is required.

Jamil is the only one who is not sitting down.

"Seriously" he's saying. "Cash machine give you five oners straight up, feds can't trace nothing bruv. Easy money."

Gale looks up from his fingers

"That kinda messin with technology stupidness leads nowhere but back to pen fast blud. True say it's clean, but I'm not on it. Allow it."

Marvel laughs

"Don't give me jokes! Manz be reppin on road in north weezy same as any one. You been in this since day. Why you acting so vexed about something minor? You be on that train tonight trust! Anyways we need your gal…."

He trails off as Jamil shoots him and me a sharp look.

"Could you be more bait bro?"

He checks to see how much I'm listening, but I'm used to fading into the background, the mix tapes on the floor suddenly becoming more fascinating than the clock across the room I'd been watching before. Khalid tries to change the subject.

"Some next man bin down on the train tracks by Great Western. Bare writin on ours. It ain't SK. Some dry ting."

Jamil takes the hook.

"I don't care, he's slippin! If I see him I'll fuck him up. Watch!"

I make my way out the security door quietly. I'm hoping not to be noticed this time. However Jamil has beaten me to it. He's climbed out the window like it's him who needs to escape to another place in his life. He corners me on the concrete walkway, leaning like he's relaxed against the wall. I'm not good at understanding people, but I can read movement, my mind learning from younger years of being my mums trigger, my response to sudden movement from anyone unavoidable for years after. "Don't flinch" she'd cry "Don't flinch."

So I know he can grab me how a spider grabs it's already bound prey.

He holds out a bundle of grimy t-shirts with some objects concealed underneath. I know what they are.

"Take it, don't dash it, don't ah nam."

I don't really know Jamil. My only real conversation with him was when the unit where he used to live took their washing machine back and he appeared at my door with armfuls of dirty trackie bottoms and a scowl that matched my own. That was years ago now and aside from Gales stories, he's really just a stranger to me. My mind flies back to another stranger, too blonde and beautiful to possibly be real and I wonder if he was really my conscience, those piercing blue eyes seeing through me to my true nature, violent, distrustful, manipulative and deadly, trying to appeal to the little girl that I was or the educated woman I'm starting to become. But that is fantasy and I have to make a decision now. After all, I don't understand why my conscience chooses to prick now after all the things I've done where I've had to split my identity into a million pieces just to stay sane.

This is here, this is now and this is real.

So I take the knives and again I run, knowing this time, one day I'll have to look back.

**Slang:**

**'Shotters' - drug dealers usually young 'ends' - your neighbourhood 'bredrin' - close friend like family 'liccle' - small and cute **

**'knockdown ginger' - a game of knocking on people's doors and then running away until they get really angry **

**'bunnin' - smoking cannabis 'grade' -high quality cannabis 'YOI' - young offenders prison 'oners' - one hundred pounds 'feds' - police **

**'pen' - prison 'allow it' - leave it, stop it, not worth it 'give me jokes' - something so stupid it's funny 'Manz' - refering to myself e.g I  
**

**'north weezy' - north west London 'since day' - forever 'bait' - stupidly obvious, likely to get caught **

**'next man' - an unimportant person who is not part of something 'bare' - a lot of 'dry' - boring, too difficult to understand **

**'slippin' - in another gangs territory, where you don't belong 'dash it' - throw away 'ah nam' - to tell tales, grass on someone**


	3. Chapter 2 Control the Sunlight

**Author Note: **

**I am so happy to be sharing Chapter 2 with you! Please, please, please review as I would so love to know what you think about my story. **

**I want to acknowledge my lovely beta ct522 who has been made me feel so good about this chapter. **

**There is some more London slang in this chapter. Translations can be found at the bottom of the page. **

**I have altered the timeframe a bit for a real life event. If you spot it I hope you can forgive me! **

**Chapter 2 Control the Sunlight **

**Age 12**

My elbows are resting in forgotten ash, my head tilting back on its axis as far as it will go in an impossible attempt to bend my line of sight through the glass and around the window frame above. It's scorching and the magnified heat of the sun that I seek burns into my face, as if daring the nearly invisible pane to try and stop the inevitable darkening of my skin. Scattered stationary and a textbook about the Mughal Empire lie neglected on the floor. The bed by the windowsill which I'm kneeling on is coverless. Clove and the seemingly endless stream of fleeting companions who came after her have moved on into futures unknown. For the first time there are no unwelcome observers of my every daydream. The evidence of secret cigarettes and left over 'blu tack' on the wall is easy to ignore. I am optimistic.

I'm starting to settle here in other ways too, to understand what foster care is all about. When I ask for food, Effie will get me something to eat and there is money set aside for clothes. Haymitch, Effie's husband will take me to the Diana Memorial Playground every Saturday for 'contact' with Prim when she is well enough to go, a whole day of playing Peter Pan that lasts until we can't climb or treasure hunt in the sand anymore. He just watches with amusement and smokes his pipe.

I should really be making the most of my newfound solitude to finish my summer homework, but it's just too hot and the radio from my very first 'boombox' is telling me that something which might actually be exciting is about to happen. I don't feel excited very often, it's new to me as well and as dangerous as nakedly viewing the total solar eclipse I'm told I'm going to see. It's the first one visible to the United Kingdom in more than fifty years.

The mindless chatter of the radio suddenly ceases and is replaced by hopeful dreamy music. I know it is time. I give up my post and fly down the stairs and out to our only bit of outside below. My eyes scan the surrounding balconies for some shared appreciation, disappointed for once that nobody seems to care about this omen for my future. I lean back on the railings, precarious as the air starts to cool and everything seems to go quiet. Non-existent clouds seem to darken my vision, simultaneously stealing the sunlight from the sky and the warm safety of its embrace from around my shoulders. I get the feeling that everything I seem to have gained is being taken from me.

It can't be real; I don't like it.

So I disobey and stubbornly look to see the all-important golden ring above. It looks terrifying and brings blinding, flashing colours to my eyes for just a moment. I turn away, but my defiance has worked and just like that it is gone. I feel invincible, like nothing can permanently dim my rekindled light, I can journey to darker places but still emerge brighter than before. I have a power I never knew I possessed. I wonder afterwards if that is why the rest of the day happens and whether or not what I thought I had discovered about myself still stands.

The slamming of the front door brings me abruptly away from the vulnerable edge of the balcony and into the shade of indoors. Cashmere is standing in the hallway, brandishing her newly acquired key. This is a rite of passage now she is fifteen. She smiles, checks that we are alone and pulls me by the arm into the living room.

"Did you see the eclipse?" I ask, anxious to show off how confident I am feeling.

"Yeah whatever" she dismisses my enthusiasm "Look I stopped at Effie's salon on way back, that woman chats bare breeze I swear down but you gonna come and roll with us tonight girl!"

She looks so happy that I don't even want to consider in my head whether or not I want to go, let alone hesitate out loud. It's nice to be wanted here.

"What made her change her mind, she's never let me out with you lot before?"

I pretend to be on her side, but I've seen Cashmere's friends as they sometimes get on the same bus as me when I'm going to school. They like to crowd around me on the back seat, hair plastered flat on their heads with fake curls stuck flat on their faces. Adidas sweatshirts and clumpy trainers hide their school uniforms for as long as permitted. Sometimes their makeup caked faces are even covered with red bandanas and only sparkly eyes tell me that "they gonna watch out for Cashmere's iccle sister" and "if anyone gives me hassle at school, they best know where the beef goin come from." I know that Effie would not be able to see me, the tiny withdrawn girl in the corner, getting along with these girls. I'm sure that she eavesdrops when Cashmere is spinning some of her exaggerated yarns about the antics she gets up to, but what she doesn't know is that a part of me has a secret longing to join in and ignite this spark that is starting to light up inside me. I have a burning need to rebel and let out the anger and frustration I feel towards all the adults who have wronged me, to let out all those pent up emotions that haunt my dreams at night and scream them out in the broad light of day.

"That's good, what are we going to do?" "Where are we going to go?" "Who is going to come?"

" Oh it ain't that exciting, just gonna cotch at the park with my crew. I gotta bring u back by dark too. Long ting. My bro will probably come link us later. There's something you gotta do first though."

She vanishes upstairs and returns before I can consider that I probably have my own small 'crew' in the form of Gale and his brothers experimenting in the car park downstairs to see how high they can lob tennis balls up the tower block wall.

She hands me a twisted coat hanger.

"Here let me see you open this then take what you want. Come on you gotta do this if you gonna come take it as like a late b'day bash for me."

We crouch down before Effie's fine glass cabinet and I struggle to open the door

"Fucks sake come here"

She twists the lock easily, though she makes me reach behind the ornaments to the bottles of liquor concealed at the back. I remove a bottle of gin, but it's not enough and she makes me take another and another. They clink delicately in my hands; something as fragile as this can't be as lethal as Gale says.

We walk slowly to North Kensington Memorial Park. It's glorious here in the hot sunshine; kids scream as the roundabout spins a little too fast, dogs sniff cautiously at rose bushes, wary of bumble bees that buzz freely on the clover strewn lawn. We head for a patch of rough grass behind the abandoned cricket pavilion. It's the only spot that looks the tiniest bit neglected, camouflaged shards of bottle green glass prick my knee when I least expect it. We sit in silence and I watch a little boy trying to keep his elaborate ship afloat on the boating pond. It looks like it belongs safely encased inside a display bottle, but its sails look so pretty fluttering in the breeze that I can understand why he keeps on trying to keep it upright. Again and again he corrects its path until one slightly stronger gust of air pulls it out of his grasp and into the deeper centre of the water. It sinks rapidly into the murky depths, so thick with strangling weeds that not even the piercing rays of sunlight will be able to laser their way to the bottom. The boy shouts in frustration, kicks a stone into the pond and then forgets, as his mum calls him away from the noisy crowd of girls that is approaching us. They surround me with huge embraces and settle down by my side.

"Welcome to Ladbroke Grove crew Katniss, guys gonna see what u gonna do for them innit, then no one can touch you, you get me? The best bit you gonna get so choong girly!"

Everyone starts laughing and they start chanting over and over again.

"Ladbroke Grove, Ladbroke Grove, you in or you out bro, you in or you out bro"

Cashmere pulls out the alcohol and even more bottles miraculously appear. I don't really know about doing anything for anybody, I just want to let go, just once. I want to know that if I let my walls crumble, just this one time, that daylight will still come, the sun will still shine, and everything will still be alright. That's why when Cashmere smashes the top of the first bottle on the side of a step and pours some of the contents into a lid just for me, I take it. It burns, but I don't want the others to see so I gulp it down as fast as I can.

Time starts to speed up and the lid rotates around the circle faster and faster until I'm certain it's not leaving my hold at all. That can't be right? Dusk is advancing dark damp shadows across the grass and the alarm call of a distant bird seems to shriek those words over and over again

"You in or you out bro" "You in or you out bro"

I don't understand why I can't feel anything yet, maybe I am invincible. I stare at the sinking sun and will it to come back, but this time it merely offers a faltering dead light and doesn't even say goodbye behind the rows of houses at the back of the park.

I haven't even noticed that we are the only ones left inside the park gates. A volley of shouts echo across the deserted space and from the garbled conversations behind me it seems that Cashmere's brother Gloss and the 'real crew' have finally shown their faces. These boys are all way older than me, maybe even eighteen or nineteen and naïve as I am, I can tell the atmosphere coming from the girls has completely changed. I stand up because everyone else has.

That's when I feel it.

My legs sway and the grass is coming up to meet my face. I push my hand against the pavilion wall and haul myself up just in time to prevent the impact. I don't know how I get there, but Cashmere has brought me in front of Gloss. I've never really thought much about boys, but I know from the music videos on Effie's TV that he must be good looking. Cashmere always tells me that he is old enough to live on his own and as soon as she turns sixteen she is going to disappear in the middle of the night and run to him. She also says he is so strong that once, he even broke her arm.

He smiles at everyone but I notice that it never reaches his eyes. All the girls seem to want a piece of him, but he only seems to want to speak to me.

"Come we bounce" He pulls me slightly to the side and starts asking me a lot of questions about myself. Normally I would lie or refuse to answer, but my head is starting to swim and the Katniss I thought I knew seems to be drowning in a sea of fuzziness and amusement. In fact everything seems to be so funny and when he leans too close, I can smell the pungent smell of sweat and 'grade.'

I can't help it.

"Gloss you smell nasty, don't you wash?"

There is an instant silence and then he backhands me straight across the face. This isn't the first time someone has slapped my face and I'm sure it won't be the last, but this time is different, something has numbed the sting and I don't even flinch or try to run. Instead I feel that new excitement again and before I can coordinate it I've slapped him back, my aim accidentally perfect on his closest cheek. There's deathly silence again and then he laughs

"Oh my days where you get this one from? She's rago, you dun know!"

The confused babble starts up again and he pulls me to him.

"I like you" he whispers "But if you ever pull that shit again I'll shank you so bad that sister of yours won't ever look at you again. Now let's see how you gonna take it back"

He holds the blade in front of my stomach so no one else can see and that's when I lose it, the adrenaline and toxic cocktail rushes straight to my head. It's pitch dark now, everything that comes after is nothing but haze and noise and hurting.

_I'm supposed to be somewhere, I can't remember where. Someone might be worried, I can't remember who. _

"_In the pond" shouts a disconnected voice "Let's see if she'll go." _

_That's right I have to be in the pond. My t-shirt is in the pond. How did it get there? I don't know. I'm in the water, its freezing, my shoes are soaking. I don't want to, I don't want to. Hands push me back in over and over. I'm falling; I'm sinking, grabbing at mud. That's right my t-shirt. I'm under water, but it's not a t-shirt its Prim, she's face down in the water and her hair is sodden. She's drowning and I have to reach her. I'm tangled. It's not Prim, but something skewers right through my hand. Is it the knife? No it's a mast and I'm bleeding all over my nice new jeans. Then there's a hand and it grabs hold of my bra strap and pulls me out. _

"_She's twelve" this hand says "She wants out, she's too gone" _

"_No" says another hand on my shoulder "I want some of that, look she's smiling she wants it." _

_Someone's pulling me but I'm pulled back. There are trees and wet grass and parked cars and more trees and a garage and blue and the smell of petrol. _

"_Get on your knees" _

_I can't. I don't even know if I'm standing up. _

_Then my jeans are being pulled down and fingers are where they shouldn't be and it hurts and it burns. I vomit everywhere. _

"_Shit she's too gone, she's too gone, allow it, allow it"_

_I want to run. I have to run. I try to run. I think my face keeps hitting the pavement. I taste metal in my mouth. I can't get up. _

_I'm being dragged. _

"_She's too heavy" Cashmere shouts_

_My jeans are coming off as I'm being dragged. Something is running down my legs and things are scratching at every inch of my bare skin. _

_I'm sitting up. I recognise this place. The picnic benches. I'm not on my own; Gloss is sitting right behind me, holding me up. He lets me slump forward, but then pulls me back by the hair so my face is next to his. _

"_Katniss you in or you out" _

"_Katniss you in or you out"_

_I say nothing and my eyes close. _

"_Fuck Katniss stay awake" He slams my head down into the table again and again. _

_I hear Cashmere. _

"_Shit Katniss, Fuck she's dead!" "Stupid bitch why she have to drink so much?"_

_Then I'm moving, my body sways all over the place. There are sirens wailing. Stop the noise it hurts my head, hurts my head. _

"_Shit Feds!" "Go!" "Go!" _

_I'm thrown into something, it stinks, and I can't breathe. I can't move. The lid slams shut. It's an empty cage for the blind. _

_I don't know anything anymore. I'm disappearing…_

_There's a bang. _

_A girl is shouting. I can't understand at first but then I do. _

"_Come out!" she shouts in Arabic_

"_Come out!" "Come out!" she tries again in English. _

_There's another loud bang and the cage is tipping. Two strong hands grasp my shoulders and they pull me out. Something soft goes over my head and there's the scent of incense. I have comfort for a moment, but then brightness appears everywhere. The light hurts my eyes; I squint and see a pale faced lady shining a pocket torch in my face. She's wearing a uniform. _

_Policewoman I think. _

"_No NO NO!" I'm screaming inside hysterically, but I'm not sure if any words actually leave my mouth. _

"_Don't take me!" "Don't lock me up!" "Leave me alone!" _

_My hands come up to scratch at her face and then I really am gone. _

My senses come back gradually, sensation by sensation as I wake up. The first thing I register is touch, soft cushions, my fingertips grip them hard. I must be on Effie's sofa, nothing bad can happen near her furniture so I must be safe for a while. Next is smell, that close proximity of vomit soaked gin. My lips part in disgust and my tongue tastes nothing but dry soreness and the rasp of my screamed out throat. I hear a ringing bell behind my head and answering cheers. A boxing match is on the television; I open my eyes and turn my head to find the watcher. The room wobbles slightly, but I can just about make out the shape of Haymitch slumped in his armchair, visible only in the light from the screen. The vision injects memory into my brain and panic floods in.

I don't normally mind Haymitch, we got off to a tempestuous start when he pushed me too far on a maths question he was adamant I was pretending not to understand, but after an hour of protest and locking myself in the bathroom, he apologised and we haven't looked back since. Now we sit in comfortable silence on those train rides to see Prim and it's alright. Sometimes either of us sees something exceptionally noteworthy out the window; we share it and then move back to silence again. Sometimes I think I like those Saturday mornings more than any other.

However I know this interaction will not be able to follow our usual pattern, but as if he were a telepath he speaks first.

"They got you good, didn't they?"

I manage a pointless nod in the darkness, but he lights his pipe and continues regardless.

"Don't you dare think I ain't been there sweetheart. I grew up on South Kilburn; I was out on the streets from the age of five. Sooner or later you get to the day when you realise this just isn't you anymore. I think that day just came early for you. What matters is what you do with that realisation; do you ignore it and take a one way ticket to gutter, or do you store it in the back of your mind, ready for your time to shine? Do you think Cashmere knows that an Eagle chick is an eaglet and young badger is a kit like you do? Will she ever understand why you even want to? I don't think so, and don't tell me I'm stupid. I know you have to pretend to be one of them, walk the walk, talk the talk, but when you're with them, don't ever forget what's really important and that's to make it to the day when you can realize who you really are."

He gets up and walks out the door, but as he passes he pats my head.

"Think about it" he says

Later on I do.

My next interrogator is not so calm and I can see she has been crying by the puffy circles under her eyes. The only adult I've ever seen with tears before is my mum and she cries all the time, so I'm not really sure what to make of this display.

"How are you feeling now?" she asks quietly.

I honestly don't know, I look down and assess that the clothes I'm wearing are definitely not mine, worse still they obviously belong to a boy. There are large patches of vomit randomly splattered across the soft material, my feet are bare and my finger nails are loaded with mud I must have been clawing at. My right hand is swathed in a blood spotted bandage. I feel vulnerable with an adult standing over me, so I pull myself up, the harsh friction of fabric against skin alerts me to the gruesome mosaics that must cover my flesh. The upper half of my trousers are soaked; I wonder how Effie can tolerate the smell as she tries again to get some sort of explanation.

"You girls always know how to keep me on my toes, but this time I was so shocked! I never thought I would see YOU lying lifeless on the pavement! Did you know you stopped breathing for a moment, did you? I thought you might be dead! They wanted to take you to hospital, but then you started throwing up and the ambulance crew thought it was safe to bring you here where one of us would be willing to watch you all the time. I think they wanted to get rid of you. Oh that poor lady! You should have seen her face covered in your scratches! You will never know how hard I pleaded with those policemen so they wouldn't give you an official caution. A criminal record Katniss, do you know what that might mean for you?"

Her voice is becoming increasingly high in octave and the throbbing of a thousand hammers against my forehead means I can't cope with this waterfall of words. I push my face back into a pillow and wait for the onslaught to stop.

"A wheelie bin Katniss! A bin! What does that tell you about what they think of you? How humiliating is that? This wasn't just some twisted way of making friends Katniss! She used you; she knew you didn't know what was going to happen. You were entertainment for her Katniss; she wanted to watch you suffer! She can't bear that you might have come from the same background as her and you might be better. You might be able to do what she can't. Don't you get it? She's not trying to protect you, she's jealous. She's trying to make sure you stay down there with her and I can't let that happen. I'm not sure if I can do this anymore, I'm not sure if I can keep you safe. What shall I do? I might have to let you go."

"How do you even know all that? You weren't there!"

My voice is muffled by the pillow, but it can't hide the fact I'm angry and humiliated talking about all of this, but most of all I'm scared. I don't want to leave, but I won't beg. I'll never beg to stay.

"There was a girl who stayed with you and she spoke to us, but when the police tried to quiz her on the whereabouts of the others she ran away. Remember Katniss, I will always find things out in the end; even when you think I don't hear what you girls talk about. I want you to have your freedom, but don't lie to me. Please."

The last word is gentler and she perches uncomfortably by my side.

"Katniss you are special, you remind me of my daughter. I know you can't see it, but you have this presence about you, when you walk into a room heads will turn, your speech is correct, when you open your mouth, everyone will listen, now all you need is something to say."

"Come and have a look in the mirror, maybe your appearance will mean more than what I have to say."

She holds up a pocket mirror from her handbag and I must admit this version of my miniature self is a shock even to me. My whole forehead is a bumpy mess of bruised peaks and sore crevasses. I don't know where this monster came from, but she certainly won't be coming back any time soon.

Effie motions for me to follow her and I manage to keep up, even though my legs are somewhat wobbly on what now seems like the never ending flight of stairs.

"You weren't the only thing I had to deal with last night. Let me introduce you to Bonnie, well at least that's what she has asked me to call her. She arrived last night before I realised the severity of what was really happening. I wouldn't have agreed in any other circumstances, but the poor dear was desperate. She's only twelve like you and she was locked out by her family, she spent half the evening sitting in a police cell, honestly I don't know what they were thinking."

Bonnie is sitting meekly on her bed when Effie opens the bedroom door. From the moment I appear she can't stop gazing at me as if I am the most amazing girl she has ever seen. She looks a little bit how I must have appeared when I first arrived months ago, except she is large and not small for her age. I think she might be Indian. Her dark split ends fall in a hopeless tangle towards the floor and the school shirt she seems embarrassed to change out of looks like it had some kind of battle with a bottle of tomato sauce. Her face is scarred in a way that is much more obvious than Clove's. I learn later that as a five year old, she made the crucial mistake of trying to microwave eggs that had not been pierced, the result being that they exploded all over her when she opened the door. I wonder briefly what she must really make of me, her unwitting representative for her life to come. Sadly right now I'm too tired to care.

A few days pass and my face turns from purple to yellow. Cashmere does not come home and each night I'm jolted awake by Bonnie's startled shriek as a policeman flashes his torch under our beds to check that she is really still missing. I sigh, turn over and try to go back to sleep. One evening, however the disturbance to my sleep doesn't end so quickly. I take a trembling Bonnie's hand and together we peep through the bannisters.

Cashmere is screaming.

"You fucking bitch, you're a liar, she's a liar. I've got jack shit! Jack shit you hear me! Look you got me this and this!"

She starts stripping off her clothes and I hear Haymitch begin to roar. Everything becomes a mess of sound and I hear more girls shouting, the abrupt wail of a police car siren and finally the sound of splintering glass as a brick shatters the stained glass panel by our front door.

Effie has made her decision.

Sometime afterwards, I gently push open the door to what was briefly just Cashmere's room. I creep inside and sit down on her bed. It feels like the invasion of privacy no longer matters. I can see her insecurity decorating the walls just as clearly as the family photographs, alcopop bottle tops, stolen maps ripped from train carriages, nightclub flyers and a stolen traffic cone that have all been left behind. I watch the goldfish she brought home from some moved-on funfair. He is swimming on his side, the brevity of his rescue and being considered a prize is already over. I wonder where Cashmere is now and I cry for her. I cry because I was chosen and she was not, I cry because it's my fault she isn't here and most of all I cry because really she is hurting just like me, but I'm not sure if her way of crying for help will ever be understood. I cry until I fall asleep and only wake when I feel Effie gently give me a hug and lead me back into my room. Something about the feel of her arm around my waist opens a door within me and as she reaches over me to turn out the light, I gently pat her wrist.

"I can do it, I promise" I whisper onto her cheek. "Please don't give up on me."

"I won't" I can just hear her say back.

In the morning, I leave the house especially early to show I mean what I say by appearing keen to go back to school. I also want to increase my chances of travelling alone without the possibility of unwanted attention. Therefore I am surprised when I see a girl I don't recognise already leaning back on the steps outside the entrance to my block. At least I think it's a girl because she has a black headscarf wound tightly around her head and knotted at the back so I can't see her hair. A large earring in the shape of a dream catcher dangles from one ear. However the rest of her clothes could definitely be defined as boys and they make her look so shapeless she might as well be draped in a black sack. She's no taller than me when she stands, but the clothes seem to double her size.

"You don't even know me, do you?" she questions, her eyes wandering up and down my school shirt, tie and short skirt with distaste.

"No I don't, I think you got the wrong girl."

"You're not wrong, now where's my clothes?"

When I shake my head she loses her cool and goes to shove me. I manage to duck away but her proximity wafts the smell of burnt incense from her clothes and I remember.

She backs away immediately

"Come out" she whispers confirmation in Arabic "Come out"

I can't look her in the face as I confess her clothes are still concealed in the bottom of my wardrobe, hidden evidence that I don't want to look at but can't help hold onto so I remember my stupidity was actually real. This weird girl has seen me at my most pitiful and it stings worse than the disinfectant I poured onto my healing hand.

I look down instead and notice that inside the tattered shopping bag she carries are two well-thumbed library books and four cans of 'Stella.' She follows my gaze and snatches the bag behind her back, but it is too late, I have found her weakness and she knows it. I stand up straight with the bolster of Effie's praise.

"Isn't it a little early in the morning to be drinking so much beer? The sight of it makes me feel sick."

It's that unthinking mouth again, but this time the lash comes from the tongue and not across my face.

"You know I come back here cos I watched you that night, I was thinking you were like me, I even thought you might speak one of my languages. I drink when I want to, I look after myself, you don't know shit! Those clothes don't mean nothing, I'll take them back anyway and any of those bottles you got so many of. You're just little miss goody two shoes who thinks she can roll with big girls any time she feels like it, but my feet can walk all over you!"

She spies Haymitch coming up behind me, but the tirade doesn't stop.

"Then you'll run back to your fake mummy and daddy, everyone can see they don't even look like you. Shame I call the ambulance and police on your arse cos right now I don't think you're worth it. I don't need you! Stay away!"

She walks away, but in the coming weeks I see her more and more, always alone, always carrying the same content in her plastic bag. When she is calmly sober and feels like talking, I learn slowly that her name is Yohana and she is from an African country called Eritrea. She hates to swim because when she was eleven, her whole family drowned in an overcrowded boat trying to reach Italy. The Italians pulled her from the wreckage and sent her back to Eritrea, where the adults she was with sent her to Mai Aini children's refugee camp in Ethiopia. That safety was short-lived as an older boy sold her to smugglers, who dragged her across the desert in handcuffs to Israel. She was sold again and brought to England so she could sleep with men for money, where the other European girls taught her English and how to drink so she could learn to forget everything for just a little while. After a short time she managed to escape. Now she is fifteen and the social workers call her an 'unaccompanied asylum seeker.' She is supposed to live in a unit that she says is for children who are too crazy to live in foster care like me. There are no other African children in the unit and those that are there call her a 'dirty 'mali' and ask her why she doesn't have a swollen belly and flies on her face. When one boy tried to touch her, she responded by stabbing him in the leg with a pair of scissors. After that, she doesn't go back 'home' very often and the threat of slamming doors and jangling key chains from a secure unit hang over her head like her nightmares of real detention in Italy. That is unless she can fix herself up and show she can be brought under adult control.

I think about Yohana a lot, especially as I try to fall asleep in the newly decorated green bedroom that Effie let us help decorate, underneath my snug new bedcovers. I wonder what would have happened to nearly naked, unconscious me in the bottom of that bin if she hadn't been there to tip me out. I decide that I owe her my life and the guilt of this decision gnaws away at my conscience until I'm driven to swallow my pride. I ask Effie for the first time for something I want, but don't actually think I can have.

It is not so impossible after all.

Nobody thinks it will work

She comes and she stays. She doesn't thank me, but her ability to vote with her feet tells me what I need to know. She makes promises to Effie, but her brown eyes look at me when she says them.

Yohana is an instinctive early riser. The preferred rug on the floor of my room which she sleeps on at night despite Effie's complaints is always empty by the time my own feet make contact with the floor. I don't always know where she goes, but one morning when my own dreams wake me too early I follow her out onto the balcony. We watch the sunrise as we silently swirl our toes in the miniature paddling pool left out for Effie's grandchildren. The warm air promises another Indian summer day.

"Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, my mum used to say" I mumble, although I'm not sure if I'm addressing Yohana or the angry red streaks that to my mother were art from the devil's paintbrush.

Yohana looks thoughtfully at the sky for the moment and then raises her index finger towards the rising sun.

"In my country when I was a bad little girl and said things that were not true, my mum used to say my tiny finger could not hide the sun, from her I always know when people are lying. When the social workers would come and tell me that the other kids in the unit didn't really hate me and they were just joking around, I would remember this. They could never stop me being angry, never make me see the others as friends, never trust their words."

She pulls me away from the pool and we lean together against the edge of the balcony so we can face the whole of London start to shimmer and burn in a glowing untameable fire.

"You are different" she continues "I like your saying, you are still little, but you don't try to hide the sun, you stand and watch with me when it's dangerous but…"

She steps back and playfully kicks some water so it cools my leg.

"I think the sky is wrong about this morning though, today you and me do things together and have some fun. It will be a good day. I won't hurt you, trust just me because I know if you are gone then I have no one here and that is no good."

So we live together and we share. She reminds me that I shouldn't trust my peers and her drunken scars are a warning mirror that confronts me every time I slip and forget what it would look like if I give up and just don't care. I tell her she is just as much a part of this pretend family as I am and I never forget the surprise on her face when she sees the expensive birthday cake Effie and I choose just for her. We look at books together and I help her with those difficult, long English words. She swears at me when I don't understand why Gale puts his arm around me and steals me a rose from an ornamental front garden on Valentine's Day. Mostly we give each other space to learn to be ourselves. The sun continues to rise and set for both of us and that just might be the most important lesson of all…

**London 2011**

The next time I see my blonde haired stranger, I'm so surprised that I nearly walk straight into the ticket barricades at Latimer Road station. He's perched far too comfortably on the side of the sweets stand, his leg dangling dangerously close to the mini espresso machine. He's chatting animatedly about what appears to be a half-eaten chocolate bar waving in his hand. His conversation is with the kiosk owner, the sum total of information I possess on the latter being that his name is Mahmoud and that he's willing to give Lucas a free lollipop if he responds with a smile and anything remotely intelligent to his broken English. This isn't the only thing that makes me stop and stare, as I'm sure my flash of previous memory must have become too blurred. There is nothing in the appearance of this boy to suggest he even knows what undergrowth is, let alone to risk being snagged by barbed wire or instant electrocution to sit in it. His hair is now neatly combed to the side and his clothes look like they came straight out of the window display in Harvey Nicks. The only hints that he isn't flawless are the slight creases that suggest he didn't iron his blue shirt.

It's funny how these profound moments that truly jolt you and send an earthquake of shockwaves through the rest of your day, always manage to happen when you least expect them. It doesn't matter how long I stare out of my bedroom window at night, checking for signs of unwanted drama kicking off on the streets below, or how many times I've learnt from having the floor pulled out from under my feet, the clues are still unrecognisable until it's too late. Of course there are nice surprises too. I remember being crowded around the TV at Effie's, gawping with Yohana at how dirty London had actually been awarded the Olympic Games, but the phone call the very next day to say that Effie's son wasn't one of those pulled alive from the wreckage of a train blown to pieces in the London bombings helped us to remember the real fragility of our existence. As I stand desperately rummaging for my 'oyster card,' I can't help thinking that this must be one of those moments. Why else would merely the sight of someone who should mean nothing make me simultaneously want to vanish on the spot and rush to find out who he really is at the same time?

I guess I had been feeling distractedly happy as I made my way through the maze of alleyways, side streets and flyovers that I must traverse before reaching my destination. So distracted in fact that I only realised too late that I am subconsciously headed towards Effie's and a different train station from which I had intended to start my journey. My bag was feeling heavy with new textbooks for the start of a new semester studying Psychology at the London School of Economics. I couldn't quite believe that I am actually going back, let alone embarking on a new module that had caught my eye from the very beginning. "Anthropology is the study of the origins, nature and destiny of human beings" announced the course introduction paper in my hand. So far my own ideas on these issues had rendered their perusal pointless; therefore I was keen to see what professors who supposedly knew more about real life than I did had to say about the matter.

I was also overwhelmed with memories of another special Christmas with Lucas. Gale had remembered to bring a brand new Thomas the Tank Engine tricycle in the nick of time just as my little boy was going to sleep. I had spent every penny of what was left of my student loan making sure that every toy Lucas gazed longingly at through the window of Hamleys had magically found its way into the grubby red pillowcase at the end of his cot bed. He is the light to my darkness, the sunshine to my rain. I don't want him to ever be like his mother, the pressing of my little girl nose up against a toy shop window, an impossibility because unless it came from a jumble sale, it was never meant for me. I don't want him to know how close he is sometimes to finding out what that is like, because no matter how hard I try, I fear I'm not always so different from my own mother after all.

The final cause of my distraction had been so incongruous that it had actually made me laugh out loud. The walls of the subway where I normally see nothing but the territorial spraying of the Ladbroke Grove W10 crew have been painted over with broad orange brush strokes proclaiming the words

"I like the life I'm living even if it's in the gutter, this city don't take prisoners. I'll choose my time of dying, let no man choose it for me 'cause I know from self-destruction, I know from self-destruction."

I'm used to seeing random street art, but it belongs to the world of tourists on the walls of the Portobello Road Market, not here where no one will bother to photograph it and puzzle for a moment at its abstract beauty. I don't understand the meaning of the words or where they come from, but I decide I like them anyway although the bit about dying is a bit melodramatic to say the least. It's almost as if someone is trying to join in with the usual scribblers, but in doing so they've missed the point entirely and only succeeded in alienating and irritating their intended companions further.

All these musings are long forgotten as I finally pull myself together and make my way onto the platform. The object of my fascination is now facing away from me, but he must feel the heat of my stare on the back of his exposed neck and he turns to catch out his observer. I'm even more surprised that the recognition when he sees me is immediate. He smiles and the warmth of it melts into my now racing heart. I don't think anyone has ever smiled at me this way, the importance of maintaining a 'screwface' or not raising my expectations before the goodbye too essential. He starts to step in my direction but I'm saved by the arrival of the train. I hurry away on the pretence of finding a quieter space, but I'm soon left cursing the new walkthrough carriages as he quickly finds my seat and breaks a million unspoken social rules by sitting down immediately opposite me and putting his feet up so they are almost touching my hand. By now I am quite agitated as my limited experience of strange men who pursue me on public transport has always ended badly, but there is something about my unsatisfied curiosity and the non-threatening undercurrent in his body language that make me want to play his game. I pick up a helpfully abandoned free newspaper and my eyes have to alight on the section 'Rush Hour Crush.' I can't stop myself and I let out a snort at the irony of the situation.

It's all the invitation he needs.

"Hey" he whispers "Why did you run from me?" "Why did you go?"

He leans forward and his blue eyes struggle to lock with mine.

"Alright maybe this" He reaches into his bag and pulls out 'Cultural Anthropology, A Perspective on the Human Condition."

I don't know what makes me do it. Maybe it's because he sounds so well spoken and I don't want a posh boy to stereotype me back into the gossip pages. Whatever the reason I pull out the identical book and a highlighter from my bag and really begin to read. He chuckles quietly, a lovely sound but he doesn't push me any further, merely glancing in my direction playfully out the corner of his eye every now and then. He leans his cheek against the window to be mindlessly hypnotised by the dancing stave of electrical wiring beyond. That would normally be me, an invisible people watcher who believes she can learn more from her observations on a train than the book in her lap will ever tell her. The tube does remove the distance between the boroughs in the city, it takes me through overlapping worlds and lets me get lost and become momentarily one with a blur of buildings, faces and voices. However I know now it doesn't even begin to help me understand the gaps between the people that live there. The enigma in front of me confirms that more than ever.

I forget that I'm supposed to be highlighting and the pen in my hand drops to the floor and rolls away. We both scramble to catch it and our foreheads collide. A sharp pain cuts across the front of my skull and my head spins. I catch a glimpse of my lit up reflection in the window, engulfed by almost pitch black and I recall another charismatic boy behind me, ready to slam my face into the bench just one more time.

How could I be so stupid?

I made a promise I would never risk the charms of an unfamiliar boy again, especially when I have a choice about who I interact with and when.

The train pulls into Kings Cross and I can't get out the door fast enough. The platform is crowded but I manage to smoothly make the transition onto the Piccadilly line without looking back to see if I am being followed. But as I board the awaiting train I'm certain that I have and sure enough I see him standing at the other end of the carriage. It's standing room only but he tries that smile again and gestures something I don't understand, I respond with a blank look that doesn't tell him if I noticed or not and he has to turn his head away embarrassed as several people have already given him strange looks. I wonder if this will finally make him leave me alone, I don't want to think about the alternative as it is only two stops to Holborn, my destination and I can't acknowledge the strengthening suspicion that perhaps he isn't just following me after all. Whatever the reason he is here, further interaction is still a bad idea.

The train empties out at Holborn, but most of the commuters are heading east into the financial district and I'm left to rush past a few luggage laden tourists in the connecting tunnels.

"Wait please; did I hurt your head? Please stop, let me explain! I thought I had more time to talk to you. Did I scare you?"

I hear him call after me, the urge to flee now is too strong but as he rounds the bend I start to laugh, I'm not sure if it is hysterical or not but we are making this so ridiculous and the fact that I am running headlong like a thief through one of the busiest stations in London and no policemen assume the worst and jump out and grab me is exhilarating at best and madness at worst. I am also being chased, but the fear I should feel from this reality still isn't really there like it should be and for a moment I can imagine we are running together, past all the adverts that are telling us what we are supposed to be doing in our lives and into enlightened oblivion beyond.

He sees me laughing and he starts to laugh too. He still thinks this is a game for me but the joke ends when I see the flowing river of passengers which prevents me from getting to the escalators in front. There couldn't possibly be more people in this concourse making it the best place to end this unwarranted standoff, but I'm not ready to be caught yet.

There is only one other option, so without hesitating I take it.

Most of the stations in this area have an emergency spiral staircase in case of electrical failure or fire. They are the preserve of business men too busy to even burn a few pounds at the gym or the truly solitary like me and they are definitely not a climb for the weak hearted. I sprint past a warning sign that states 193 steps are to be taken only in an emergency and then my ascent is begun. It only takes another few steps to realise what I have actually done and I feel real apprehension for the first time in this adventure. The lonely echo of my footsteps being joined by another heavier pair of feet tells me it is just us on the whole flight. I am isolated in an enclosed place with no one to hear me if I need to call for help. Not that I believe anyone would come, but it would be nice to have at least one witness to whatever my determined companion decides to do with me. Perhaps this is the gory downfall to my early morning pride. The more I think about it the more frightened I become and the faster I move, my experienced feet taking the stairs sometimes two at a time. My agility from years of living just on the edge of danger is my biggest defence.

When I get to the halfway point, I'm feeling confident that he won't be able to catch up to me and my anxiety turns into irritation. Although we're still deep underground, the string of neon emergency lights above make sure it isn't dark in here and although this isn't my usual turf, I feel my advantage keenly. Something inside me snaps and I turn around. I stand firm footed on my higher step, feet apart and arms folded. When my metallic footfalls stop he looks up, forehead sweaty, mouth ajar and his eyes meet mine.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" "What do you want?"

I regret these taunts instantly as soon as they bounce noisily down the steps towards their target. He might become the super powered psychopath I fear, but his real response is much worse, the mortification obvious.

"I don't… I mean I wasn't… I just thought maybe…."

His open face closes and he changes tack. He grips the inside handrail and his eyes won't look at me anymore. They flash towards the eye of this tornado of a staircase as if he hopes the centre will spin him away from having to brush my side when he passes. However he surprises me by stopping when he makes it to a safe distance away.

"I saw your book and I think we might be going to the same place, I haven't lived in Ladbroke Grove long and this is all new to me. I thought you might want to make a friend. I'm sorry; I don't normally chase girls into deserted tunnels. It won't happen again."

He doesn't stop walking then and I watch, slowly following behind as he disappears into the crowds of people ahead in the passage. The impenetrable mass of bodies reminds me of the barriers that exist between whatever world he comes from and mine.

I'm left briefly with that familiar feeling of having lost something I never had in the first place. A thousand faceless people hurry past me as I make my way through the maze of corridors to the world outside. Right now I feel that if I reached out and tried to touch just one, I'd simply disintegrate into the dust that blankets the tunnel walls. I'm another insignificant spec whose only fate is to be carried by the wind from the trains into the endless dark tunnels beyond.

As I emerge into the street again, I try to remember why I am here in the first place. The usual transitional commute, that allows me to progress from 'mummy Katniss' to 'ghetto Katniss' and finally through to 'driven and focused Katniss' has been effectively ruined. I'm too distracted to even be tempted by the myriad of fancy eateries as I make my way down the Kingsway. I turn into Portugal Street and the varied buildings of my university look like they are part of their own little city, but are still a perfect blend with the surrounding antiquity of the Royal Courts of Justice, Lincolns Inn and Lincolns Inn Fields.

I remember how intimidated I felt when I first came here, my angry tears on the phone to Effie after I was escorted out of the library by security for trying to look at the books before I officially became a student. I'm more comfortable now and on days like today was supposed to have been, I even start to accept that this might be the place where the rest of my life is mapped out. I can sometimes speak freely here and the dialogue running in my mind is a complex mix of nouns, adjectives and verbs. The vocabulary which I learnt from the old fashioned books which were often my only companions as a child is not caged by the fear of misunderstanding and rejection from the harsher world in which I have always truly belonged. However, words alone aren't always enough and the content of conversations about weekend escapades, exotic trips to California, Thailand or Australia or complaints about the scummy 'chavs' from the estate around the corner who nicked their fathers car are capable of stilling my tongue forever.

I'm convinced that 'lost and confused Katniss' will get side-tracked in the library so I decide to head to my only equivalent of Meanwhile Gardens. The buildings I walk past are a mixture of old and new with concrete joined by high walkways, so like home but a world away at the same time. The Aim Higher building is really just a small 'portacabin' at the back of the library. It shares space with the multi faith prayer room, but to me it's a little haven when this whole place returns to being daunting and aloof. If I'm really honest it is the reason I chose this university above all the others that willingly accepted me. It is also the home of my mentor Shae, at least I can't imagine that she lives anywhere else with all the ungodly hours she spends here. She has been a steady presence in my life ever since she hobbled on her stick into our 'community hub youth club' and demanded to know why none of us kids were thinking about university.

Now, three years later she's still here and she wants me to start going out with her into the failing schools and onto the estates. The idea fills me with dread and on cloudy days I don't really see the point. Who is really going to listen to me? I'm not really going anywhere anyway. But on sunny days, like today I think maybe I might give it a try, especially if it means I can keep coming to the student groups here. The refreshments of steaming rice and peas and the opportunity to find myself are too good an opportunity to turn away.

"Hello Katniss, aren't you supposed to be in lecture soon?"

She greets me without turning round, her grey dreadlocks falling into her face as she attempts to staple flyers to the wall with shaking hands.

"Yeah but I just wanted to see what was going on here now the new semester is started first."

I lie, my fingers fiddling with an empty crisp packet on the desk beside me.

"Are you hungry today Katniss?"

Shae misinterprets my actions and gives me a knowing glance as she comes to sit beside me. I reassure her that I'm not and even share that Lucas made me taste some of his new breakfast cereal before I rushed to plait my hair.

"Well you take something anyway, to be honest I don't have that many plans yet, I need to talk to all of you because there's talk that things are a bit dodgy with the budget and we need to decide together what is most important about what we do. Anyway don't you worry yourself about that now, we have some good news, a new student is interested in helping us and guess what… wait for it…. it's finally a guy!"

"Oh what's he studying?" I pretend to be interested as I start to worry about the possibility of having to walk into the lecture theatre late with all eyes upon me.

"His name is Peeta Mellark and he has just started as a joint honour Politics and Psychology student. He told me he is taking the anthropology module, just like you."

**Slang: **

**'bare' - a lot of '****breeze' - talking rubbish or stuff that doesnt need saying '****swear down' -emphasises previous point but also more likely to be used when what you are saying may not be true either! **

**'cotch' - hang out with friends doing nothing in particular ****'long' - boring not necessary '****link' - meet up but not at a pre specified time or place **

**'innit' - isn't it? '****choong' - happy drunk where you dont care about anything anymore ****'bounce' - leave quickly **

**'oh my days' - shock, never seen anything like it '****rago' - wreckless, doesnt care about behaviour or who sees '****allow it' - leave it alone, stop it.**

**'Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning' is a traditional English saying **

**'A mere finger cannot hide the sun' is an East African proverb**

**The graffiti quote is from a poem about Ladbroke Grove by Mick Farren who was a key member of the counter culture/political resistance movement in the area during the 1960's and '70's. **


End file.
